THE CRY OF THE DREAMER.
By John Boyle O’Reilly.
I am tired of planning and tolling
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling.
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
I am sick of the showy seeming,
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by
From the sleepless thoughts’ endeavor
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day.
I can feel no pride, but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skilful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter’s heart grown wilful,
And the father’s heart that bleeds!
No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods’ low rustle
And the meadow’s kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.